“They won’t fit in a bin liner and I could hardly leave them at the dump as they are.” He turned to face me. “There’s no point keeping them, not when they upset you so much.”

“But I have to keep them.”

“Why?”

“Because …” I trailed off.

“Because, what?”

They were proof she was being mentally tortured, I thought, but didn’t say. Because I knew it would lead to an argument about how you died; because that argument would inevitably end in our separation. And because I didn’t want to be more alone than I already was.

Did you tell the police about Simon’s photos?” Mr. Wright asks.

“No. They were already skeptical—more than skeptical—about Tess’s being murdered and I didn’t think the photos would persuade them otherwise.”

I could hardly mention Bequia islanders and voodoo dolls.

“I knew that Simon would argue that they were for his art degree,” I continue. “He had an excuse for stalking her.”

Mr. Wright checks his watch. “I need to get to a meeting in ten minutes, so let’s end it there.”

He doesn’t tell me who the meeting is with, but it must be important if it’s on a Saturday afternoon. Or maybe he’s noticed me looking tired. I feel exhausted most of the time, actually, but in comparison to what you went through, I know I have no right to complain.

“Would you mind continuing your statement tomorrow?” he asks. “If you’re feeling up to it.”

“Of course,” I say. But surely it’s not normal to work on a Sunday.

He must guess my thoughts. “Your statement is vitally important to secure a conviction. And I want to get as much down as possible while it’s fresh in your mind.”

As if my memory is a fridge with pieces of useful information in danger of rotting in the crisper drawer. But that’s not fair. The truth is that Mr. Wright has discovered that I am more unwell than he originally thought. And he’s astute enough to worry that if I am physically declining, then my mind, particularly my memory, might deteriorate too. He’s right to want us to continue apace.

I’m now on a crowded bus, squashed up against the window. There’s a transparent patch in the misted glass and through it I glimpse London’s buildings lining our route. I never told you that I wished I’d studied architecture instead of English, did I? Three weeks into the course, I knew I’d made a mistake. My mathematical brain and insecure nature needed something more solid than the structure of similes in metaphysical poetry, but I daren’t ask if I could swap in case they threw me off the English course and no place was found for me on the architecture one. It was too great a risk. But each time I see a beautiful building, I regret I didn’t have the courage to take it.

13

sunday

This morning there isn’t even one receptionist on the front desk and the large foyer area is deserted. I take the empty lift up to the third floor. It must just be Mr. Wright and me here today.

He told me that he wants to “go through the Kasia Lewski part of the statement this morning,” which will be strange because I saw Kasia an hour ago in your flat, wearing your old dressing gown.

I go straight into Mr. Wright’s office and again he has coffee and water waiting for me. He asks me if I’m okay, and I reassure him that I’m fine.

“I’ll start by recapping what you’ve told me so far about Kasia Lewski,” he says, looking down at typed notes, which must be a transcript of an earlier part of my statement. He reads out, “ ‘Kasia Lewski came to Tess’s flat on the twenty-seventh of January at about four in the afternoon asking to see her.’ ”

I remember the sound of the doorbell and running to get it; having “Tess” in my mouth, almost out, as I opened the door and the taste of your name. I remember my resentment when I saw Kasia standing on your doorstep with her high-heeled cheap shoes and the raised veins of pregnancy over goose-bumped white legs. I shudder at my remembered snobbishness but am glad my memory is still acute.

“She told you that she was in the same clinic as Tess?” asks Mr. Wright.

“Yes.”

“Did she say at which clinic?”

I shake my head and don’t tell him that I was too keen to get rid of her to take any interest, let alone ask any questions. He looks down at his notes again.

“She said she’d been single too but now her boyfriend had returned?”

“Yes.”

“Did you meet Mitch Flanagan?”

“No, he stayed in the car. He blared the horn and I remember she seemed nervous about him.”

“And the next time you saw her was just after you’d been to Simon Greenly’s flat?” he asks.

“Yes. I took some baby clothes round.”

But that’s a little disingenuous. I was using my visit to Kasia as an excuse to avoid Todd and the argument I

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